A Brief History of the Private Life of Elizabeth II (29 page)

For the Royal Family, as for the rest of the world, the new century effectively began on 11 September 2001. They were at Balmoral, and will have followed
the events on television, as did countless others. Among the dead there were many subjects of the Queen, and she will have shared in full the general sense of shock and grief. The events of that
day heralded the advent of a new age of international terror just as the old era of more local terrorism was ending. With the Good Friday Agreement, peace had largely returned to Ulster and it was
hoped that the Omagh bomb – which ripped through a pretty market town in the summer of 1998, becoming one of the worst atrocities in Ulster’s history – was the bloody climax to a
campaign of violence that had achieved nothing. Now those who protected the Queen, and the public, had to look for danger from a new direction. The British were long used to anti-terrorist
precautions. By now they were scarcely shocked, or surprised, by the number of policemen carrying sidearms, or even machine guns, in the streets.

Amid the climate of fearful disbelief that followed the attacks of 11 September, there were some symbolic gestures the monarch could make. She authorised, on the day of mourning, the playing of
‘The Star-spangled Banner’ during the changing of the guard at Buckingham Palace. In attendance were Prince Andrew and the US Ambassador, while outside the railings were numbers of
expatriate Americans, perhaps enabled to feel linked with home. The Queen visited New York, went to Ground Zero, attended a commemorative service, and awarded the city’s dynamic mayor,
Rudolph Giuliani, the KBE for his leadership during the crisis. As so often, she could seem a personification of stability, continuity and normality, even outside her own realms.

These realms were gearing up to mark her Golden Jubilee in the summer of 2002. This time more than ever, in view of the drubbing the Royal Family’s reputation had endured in the previous
decade, official opinion was hesitant about the scale of
celebrations. Would a large event be too ambitious? Would the Mall look embarrassingly empty if not enough people
turned out? It seems to be customary to ‘fly a kite’ in these circumstances: the Palace makes it known, several months ahead, that the celebrations for a Royal event will be modest. It
then waits for public reaction. As disappointment and complaint grow louder, the preparations expand accordingly. In this case, it was obvious during the spring that momentum was building, and it
was decided that there would be a four-day commemoration, spread over a weekend at the end of May and beginning of June. There would be a procession to St Paul’s, a thanksgiving service, a
balcony appearance, fireworks – all the things that people hope for and expect.

Just as the festivities were being planned, the Family was struck by tragedy. Princess Margaret had been an increasingly shadowy presence in public life since the traumas of the 1970s. She had
been the first of the Royals to lose dignity as a result of scandal, and her standing had never really recovered. Her health had also been failing. She had suffered bronchitis and laryngitis. A
smoker, like her father, she had – like him – undergone a lung operation. In 1998 she had a stroke. She subsequently, and badly, scalded her feet in a bath. She had a second stroke. By
the time she was seen on the occasion of the Queen Mother’s 100th birthday she was a pitiable figure, confined to a wheelchair, expressionless and apparently speechless, her eyes hidden by
sunglasses. She was in great pain, and confided to a friend that she longed ‘to join Papa’. On 9 February – three days after the anniversary of his own death – she did.
Following a third stroke she was taken to hospital, where she died. Confirming her reputation as the most unconventional member of the Family, she had asked to be cremated at the Slough municipal
crematorium, the nearest such facility to Windsor. It was a gesture of defiant individualism, a final act of rebellion against a position in life that had so signally failed to bring her
happiness.

The Queen Mother, too, was visibly declining. She refused to be defeated by age or infirmity, insisting on entertaining guests or making visits despite having to walk,
slowly and painfully, with sticks. She seemed to keep going entirely by willpower, but then this had always been her defining quality. It had enabled her to lead the monarchy’s fight-back
after the Abdication, to transform her shy husband into a hugely popular King, and to be a mother to the nation during the Second World War. Hitler had called her ‘the most dangerous woman in
Europe’. Among less biased observers – and her former subjects – her popularity was limitless, as was the love they had for her. In 2001 her great-grandson William had called on
her before going off to university. ‘Any good parties, be sure and let me know!’ she had allegedly told him. This was among her last recorded statements. It was cherished by the public
as evidence of a sparkling sense of fun that combined with an unquenchable, uncrushable spirit. But this could not compensate for physical frailty. Her last days were spent at Royal Lodge, the home
in Windsor that she and her husband had first occupied in the 1920s. Aware that time was running out, she punctiliously spent her days in thanking those who had been her friends, or had looked
after her, over the years. It was a charming, touching way for anyone to leave the world. Her last moments came on Easter Saturday, in the afternoon. The Queen, who had been riding in the Park,
went at once to her bedside and was there when she died.

These events marked the end of an age in a way that nothing had done since the King himself had died 50 years earlier. The Queen was now the only survivor of the tightly bound unit her father
had dubbed ‘we four’. Although he had died at 56, the Queen has otherwise been extremely fortunate in that those closest to her have lived long. Her sister was 71, her mother was 101.
Her husband has reached 90 without seriously slowing down. To those who are so blessed, losses perhaps seem keener. Her Majesty received immense public sympathy, and
there was
widespread grief. A million people stood in the streets to see the Queen Mother’s coffin pass, or waited for up to nine hours to view her coffin in Westminster Hall. Throughout the troubled
1990s, monarchists had been well aware that the death of the Queen Mother would focus public affection once more on the virtues of royalty – would provide the most effective counter-blow
against the tide of criticism and trivialisation – and there had been a certain guilty impatience for this moment to come. It had fulfilled their expectations. ‘These are times,’
wrote the
Guardian
’s Jonathan Friedland, ‘when republicans should walk humbly.’

Despite this national mourning, the Jubilee went ahead as envisaged. Her Majesty made tours of Commonwealth countries, and visited the four parts of the United Kingdom. On 4 June 2002, she
travelled with her husband to St Paul’s in the Coronation Coach. Over a million waited along the route, on a damp and overcast morning, to see her. As always, the British cherish these
occasions. They love to revel in the feeling that their ceremonial is more ancient, more elaborate, better planned and prepared and better performed than any other public occasions, anywhere. They
are not only there to glimpse, or acclaim, the sovereign; they are also congratulating themselves on how well their country celebrates. The Queen set off from the Palace dressed in sky blue. When
she returned, hours later, the weather had changed and so had she, for she was now in pink. As she stood on the Palace balcony she could see that, beyond the Victoria Memorial, the Mall was a solid
mass of people all the way to the distant Admiralty Arch. A sea of miniature Union Flags flapped and waved like a multi-coloured blizzard; larger banners, of Scotland, England and Wales, were
draped on shoulders or lamp posts, or flourished exuberantly. ‘Land of Hope and Glory’, sung over and over again, was loud enough for the words to be audible inside the Palace. The
Queen responded to cheering with repeated, gentle waves of her black-gloved hand and a smile that indicated
quiet, modest but genuine pleasure. The possibility of looking down
at the populace and feeling the force of mass affection is something only a highly popular Head of State can know. Even though she does this once a year on her official birthday, the scene that day
must surely have been one of the great experiences of her life.

In the sky, far to the east, there were distant specks that grew bigger as the seconds passed. Aircraft in tight formation aligned on the Mall. Now the sound of them caused the crowd to look up.
The Red Arrows, the RAF’s aerobatic team, shot over their heads with a reverberating roar, leaving a hanging trail of red, white and blue smoke. Ahead of them, the scream of its engines so
loud that it drowned even the noise from the thousands below, was the sleek white shape of Concorde. Its sharp nose lifted gracefully as it peeled off and climbed towards the stratosphere. Hundreds
of thousands gasped, and then cheered.

The Golden Jubilee was a very different experience from the ceremonial events of 1977. The procession that had followed Her Majesty back to the Palace – she and Prince Philip had returned
standing up in an open Land Rover – included more than the bands and marching dignitaries that onlookers expected, and the atmosphere was noticeably more informal and light-hearted, more like
that of a student rag-procession than a state occasion. The public took away memories of elaborate West Indian carnival costumes, pumping rock music, VC winners travelling in a vintage car, and a
giant pony-tailed ‘caring dad’ with infant strapped to his chest. Another change since the 1970s was that members of the Royal Family (though not the monarch herself) had come out of
the Palace the evening before the celebrations to meet some of those who were sitting all night on the kerbsides. Since the 100th-birthday celebrations for the Queen Mother, it seems there has been
a hint of quirky eccentricity in the planning of popular Royal occasions. The notion of a rock musician, Brian May, playing ‘God Save
the Queen’ on electric guitar
on the roof of the Palace that evening (there was a concert for the public in the gardens) was a gesture that captured the imagination of millions around the world, and showed that for all its
perceived irrelevance to the ‘modern world’, Royalty can harness elements of mass-culture for its own purposes.

However impressed Her Majesty was by Concorde’s tribute – and she apparently loved it – she will have felt nothing but relief when, the year after her Jubilee, its flights
ended. By accident of circumstance the United Kingdom’s biggest and busiest airport is within a few miles of Windsor Castle. An extremely old joke has it that a tourist asks why the Castle
was built so close to the airport. While the location may be convenient for travel both for the Queen and for her visitors, there is no doubt that it is more a blight than a blessing. Since the
development of the jet engine in the 1950s the Castle’s occupants have had to accustom to an increasing level of noise-pollution from aircraft departing and landing, and in this they share
the experience of millions of citizens who live to the west of London. On the two occasions each day that Concorde came in to land, seeming to hover over the town of Windsor like some malevolent
bird of prey, the noise of its engines was deafening – virtually loud enough to drown out a brass band.

There have been other celebrations since the Golden Jubilee, and it appears that Royal hospitality, always impressive, is gaining an element of imagination too. Already the Queen and Prince
Philip had had the notion of celebrating their 50th wedding anniversary with a garden party for other couples who had ‘tied the knot’ in the year 1947. Even more charming was the
Queen’s 80th birthday celebration. This, too, was held in the gardens of Buckingham Palace, but the guests were 2,000 children – as well as a host of characters from children’s
literature and television. A specially written play was put on with a cast of celebrities, entitled
The Queen’s Handbag
. In the story, this most famous of Royal accessories is stolen,
but
is restored to her at the end. ‘Oh good,’ said Her Majesty, who was also watching the performance. ‘I do like happy endings.’

In her eighties, the Queen remains fixed in habit. She spends the year in the same places, doing the same things (though sadly she has had to give up riding). She likes Earl Grey tea, and German
wines but not champagne (both she and Prince Philip only pretend to sip it during toasts). She does not eat pasta because the sauces are likely to be messy, and avoids shellfish because of the
possible ill-effects. She likes simple food because she has to eat so much elaborate fare on official occasions. Being of a frugal nature, she expects the leftovers from Palace meals to be utilised
for days afterwards. She allegedly does not like facial hair – or waistcoats – on men. She drives herself when she is on private roads within her estates, but does not wear a safety
belt (which is not illegal on such thoroughfares) and regularly exceeds the speed limit. On at least two occasions members of the public have been put to flight by Her Majesty bearing down on them,
at an estimated 60, and 70, miles an hour where she should have been doing 30. In one of these instances she had her Private Secretary send a note of apology. Her speeding, like her refusal to wear
a hard hat when riding, is an oddly rebellious aspect of a personality that is otherwise both cautious and conventional.

Although members of the Royal Family often feel that press attention is a nuisance, they are well aware that they nevertheless need it. If journalists did not write about them and the public did
not read about them, monarchy might die by neglect. The Queen, understandably, likes to know what is being said about her and can be irritated if coverage seems inadequate, just as she likes the
applause of the public. After the annual Trooping the Colour ceremony she appears with her family on the Palace balcony, and is greeted by large crowds because the police, controlling the movement
of people below, let them into the area in time to reach the Palace railings as she appears. A few years ago she was annoyed with the senior
police officer in charge because
the crowd was held back for too long and she came onto the balcony to find no one there.